


A Balanced Tribute

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Dark Rey, Emperor Hux, F/M, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, really more Dark-ish Rey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She will be wed, and she will hold The Butcher’s hand, will let him slide the Emperor's ring on her finger, will ride beside him to Coruscant.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Balanced Tribute

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say -- have some id-fic, by which I mean, trashy, unrepentant pseudo-historical porn. 
> 
> It would not exist without [machinewithoutfeelings](http://machinewithoutfeelings.tumblr.com/) and the rest of the Reylo chat. It's a follow-up/expansion to one of the [drabbles here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6018906), written for the prompt Blood-Splattered Wedding Dress; reading it isn't necessary because I've incorporated it right in. 
> 
> Thank you for looking it over for me, [Em](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hakuen/pseuds/ughwhyben)!
> 
> Machine, I hope it is everything you wanted!

They would be wed by proxy first, here, at D’Qar, as befits the custom.

She had expected this; their uncle, the Duke, and ambassador to Corellia at the time, had stood in proxy for her eldest brother. In fact, he had stood proxy for more than one member of the royal family; wed thrice, yet never a lady wife to show for it, he used to say, half in jest, half in regret.

He is pure rage now, circling the room with all the grace of a tromping bull.

“This is an indignity. An insult. He sends The Butcher for my niece? That upstart whelp!”

Her uncle’s thick neck is turning red, and her mother lays a delicate hand on his forearm.

“That upstart whelp is His Imperial Majesty, now. And it seems he doesn’t want to let us forget how he got there.”

Rey watches them argue, resigned; they will not stop until they have gone through the motions, though the deal is done. There is no turning back from this, not without the breaking of a treaty, and neither her mother nor her uncle are foolish enough to sacrifice peace for one moment of her life -- or whatever moments come after.

She will be wed, and she will hold The Butcher’s hand, will let him slide the ring on her finger, will ride beside him to Coruscant. Perhaps it is because she is too young; she wasn’t there for Hosnia, wasn’t there for Malachor, but she doesn’t fear The Butcher, Lord Ren. After all, he only goes where her true intended points; he may be the bringer of carnage, but it is the Emperor who wields that knife, and that concerns her much more.

“They say he serves the Emperor in every way,” her brother’s wife tells her later, in her chambers, as she supervises the final fittings of her gown. Rey is prodded and poked by needle and thread, laced and unlaced into too-tight stays, into rigid skirts, into scratchy cloth-of-gold. “You will be Empress, but not the first one.”

Rey considers this, looking at Lord Ren’s pale, angular face across the bench as they kneel before it. He doesn’t look like a murderer any more than he looks like the Emperor’s lover, though she knows she has little enough reference for either. And while rumor of the second may be all it is -- a rumor -- the hand that holds hers has crushed out a hundred lives. A thousand. And so has the hand that will hold hers in less than a week.

The journey is mostly uneventful. She is made to change on the border between D’Qar and Coruscant, in a tent they have put up for this very purpose. Her clothes are taken away and replaced by Coruscanti finery; due to some ages old ritual, her D’Qarian ladies cannot help her, and she must dress herself in the Emperor’s gifts, tightening the laces as best she can, pulling the heavy jeweled collar around her neck. Most of the D’Qarian party will be returning home after this, only a select few continuing with her to the capital.

The Butcher guards the entrance; his gaze slides over her, almost disinterested, as she steps outside, shrouded in her new loyalties.

“One more thing, my lady,” he tells her before she moves to the new carriage that will carry her from here on. “Another gift. Not from His Majesty; from me.” He slides the little dagger, heavy, into her palm. It is simple, with a plain hilt, strapped into a thin, fine leather harness. “It goes inside the sleeve,” he says, “if you will allow me,” and she lets him secure it on her arm with his long, bloodless fingers.

She thanks him with an incline of her head. “I hope I do not have the need to use it any time soon,” she says, and for the first time, she sees The Butcher smile.

“Do you? Pity,” he says, and holds the door of the carriage open for her.

***

In the storybooks her nannies had read to her when she was a little girl, the enchanted knights were often sad and handsome, sometimes pale and wounded, but always bright-eyed and tall, and even if bewitched, their faces would be kind. It is how the heroines were able to tell man from beast, Rey supposes, running her fingers over the enameled miniature portrait pinned to her dress. The court artist must have flattered His Imperial Majesty; his hair is red and gold, and his face is fair, with its patrician nose, high forehead and fine cheekbones, but the Emperor’s icy green eyes are knowing, piercing, and as far from kind as can be.

Rey thinks to her own portrait, posed for and sent off to him months prior. Her uncle’s artist has flattered her at least as much; she looks younger rendered in oils, her skin smoother, her hair darker and fuller. She is holding a fan in one narrow hand, haughty in a way she hardly ever is, but should learn to be, and soon.

It is no matter. She is not wed for her skin, or for her hair, or the curve of her red, disdainful lip, no more than he for his cold eyes or the smooth line of his throat. And there are still more portraits, even less fair to them both -- a fine leather bag at her feet holds handfuls of coins she is meant to throw into the crowds, his profile stamped on one side, distinguishable by its crown of laurel; hers on the other side, unrecognizable even to herself.

The city celebrates; she can see it from the open carriage, ribbons and flags festooning even the darkest alleys and the dirtiest dives; wine flowing like a river, rosy-cheeked peddlers calling out their candied fruits and smoked meats. Rey imagines the cutpurses are celebrating even more amidst the crush of people; there hasn’t been a royal wedding in years, and surely the pickings must be good.

The Butcher is feted with the rest of them. He isn’t hated here like he is in D’Qar, but there is nowhere he isn’t feared. And yet, he has brought to the capital a jewel, His Majesty’s young shining bride, and for this, they set aside their fear and wave at him, throw painted rice and bits of ribbon in his path just as they do in hers.

He rides ahead of the procession, and Rey must watch as he dismounts, a blackbird in a sea of colored silk as he makes his way towards the carriage. Black doublet, black cape, the black horse handed off to a groom, only his spurs and his sword glinting, sharp, in the sunlight. He helps her down the carriage step with unexpected grace, and steadies her with a heavy hand as she takes a suddenly uncertain step on the cobblestones.

Her Imperial husband waits at the end of the path, and she takes a deep breath, feels the leather harness holding The Butcher’s gift to the inside of her velvet sleeve.

“Just a few more steps, and you will have almost done your duty,” he says quietly into her ear. If only that were true, and if wishes were ponies, and if she had been born a village girl instead of the daughter of a rebel queen, Rey thinks, and steels herself. All over the city, the bells begin to toll.

***

Village girls, and even the children of minor lordlings have their beddings, raucous, crude affairs, the bride and groom stripped of their finery and carried up to the marriage bed by a drunken, prurient crowd. His Imperial Majesty is far above all that, and yet their union, too, must be witnessed. Not by a crowd, at least, Rey tells herself as her new ladies lead her up the winding stair. She is used to being dressed and undressed by other hands, but there is a particular shame about being led to a bedchamber with her mother’s General following, about being pulled out of her gown and her stockings and her gloves as he takes a seat in the chair at the front of the room. The other remains vacant for now, as the ladies undo her hair, as they wrap her in a silk robe and guide her towards the massive, canopied bed. She stands beside it, hands folded demurely in front of her stomach, nails making half-moons in the skin of her palms.

At least these rooms are not His Majesty’s, and neither will they be hers, when all is said and done. Though they are on neutral ground, she cannot bring herself to look at the bed’s ornate covers or the oaken posts at the corners; there is a tapestry along the far wall, but looking at it means meeting the General’s gaze. The General, Dameron, one of her lady mother’s most trusted, is an insult returned for The Butcher’s proxy. His presence at the Emperor’s marriage bed is a barb, a stinging reminder that peace they may have, but a peace bought and bartered, not a victory in the field. Rey sees the pity in his face, and turns away just as the door opens again. For a moment, she wants to run, to flee, this room, this palace, this city, as far away as she can go. She presses her nails harder into the meat of her hands, and hopes it doesn’t show.

The Butcher, Ren, sits down in the chair next to Dameron. Of course it’s him; as if there could have ever been any doubt of that. He has married her already, it is only fitting he will be here as well, to see her through the rest of it.

His Majesty is assisted by his grooms as she had been, though there is no embarrassment in his face. She wonders if shame is something only she can feel; Dameron looks at her with sympathy, the Emperor with calculated interest. Ren is a mask of cool equanimity; in his dark eyes, she sees neither concern nor pity, and strangely, that settles her somewhat as their attendants withdraw and her husband fixes her with his ice-shard stare.

The windows are curtained shut, and the room is dusky, the shadows broken by only a few candles and the red glimmer of the fireplace. In their dim glow, the Emperor looks at her, assessing, appraising, but no more; it is the same as he had done at dinner, the two of them seated far apart, opposite each other across the long, massive table. He makes no move to kiss or touch her, though touch her he must, if they are to proceed, and Rey makes a decision.

She slides the silken robe off her shoulders in one quick gesture, aware of the weight of his gaze; it is not for her to cover herself with her hands, or to tremble like a scared maiden. In her veins flows the blood of the kings of old -- considerably more so than in his. She stands up taller, squaring her shoulders back, and takes a step towards him, trying to ignore the rush of air on her bare, exposed breasts, turning her nipples into sudden hard points.

The corner of his lip ticks up, a wry shadow of a smile, and her face flushes warm in an instant. She has always blushed easily, and she cannot help it now, feeling the tell-tale heat pooling up through her cheeks, undoubtedly turning them a bright shade of pink. She must pay it no mind. Rey takes a little breath, and then another, working to get her ragged pulse under control; the rush of it hammers insistently through her wrists, her temples, the pit of her belly. She takes another step, shifting her weight unsteadily from foot to foot, and reaches out, letting her fingers land lightly on the side of his jaw.

She almost expects him to be cool to the touch, a glacial prince cursed forever frozen, and the soft warmth of him is surprising as she trails her hand over his face, across his cheek, to the delicate curve of his mouth. She can feel his breath on the pads of her fingers for just a brief second, and then his hand snaps up, snake-like, catching her wrist in a steady grip.

“Lady Reyna,” he says, his voice low, and she feels the words in her chest like a tremor, her name the first thing he has said to her since their earlier meeting. His other hand slips around her side, skimming up her back, and then he’s pulling her roughly against him, her breasts crushing into his chest.

He is tall, but spare; she works her hand between them, lets it rest in the hollow of his throat. Out of his regalia, with just the fine, wispy cloth of his robe remaining, he is rangy, slender, the jut of his shoulder, his collarbone almost vulnerable under her touch.

He has destroyed a kingdom with a word, she remembers, and rises up on her toes to kiss him.

Whatever purity may have been demanded of her, he is not the first man she has kissed, though it has been far too long since she’s allowed herself the indulgence. Rey opens her mouth and breathes into him, angles her face up and moves her hands to the back of his neck, coaxing him closer. His lips are warm, pleasantly slick, and he tastes deceptively sweet, like the wine they drank at the feast, the sticky pink cream of the pastries they had put on her plate.

In the storybooks, the fair ladies and their knights always closed their eyes at their first kiss, the flowery renditions of true love needing no sight but the heart’s; even as a girl she had thought them ridiculous, foolish. Closed eyes are no way to come at anything, be it throne or battle or bed, and if she had done as the Briar Maid had with the Lord of Ravens, she would not see what she sees now, up close. A thin white line of scar tissue spans the Emperor’s neck, from the pinkened shell of his ear to halfway under his chin, as if someone had once tried and failed to cut his throat. Scattered below, vanishing down his collar, are freckles, little disarming spots of sun marking his skin; Rey would bet anything, even down to the dagger The Butcher has gifted her with, that he hates them.

He catches her looking as their lips part, and grins suddenly, boyish and maybe a little bit mad, as he runs his own hand across the raised, damaged flesh of his throat.

“Do you like it, Lady Reyna? It was the very first gift I received from your esteemed uncle,” he says, and then his hand is moving down to her breasts, over the span of her belly. She shivers, jolting away from his touch or into it, she can’t quite tell, as he pushes his thigh roughly and firmly between hers, and his hand follows, a sudden shock of heat at the apex of her thighs.

“Huh,” he murmurs softly, and slides his fingertips against her; she hates the little shaky noise that bubbles up in her throat, the quick burn of self-consciousness that sends her to hide her face in the cool silk of his sleeve, the feel of the wiry muscle underneath. She is nothing like the gentle, foolish, make-believe Briar Maid, but she cannot stand to look at him anymore as the edge of his hand brushes up the insides of her legs.

She tries to keep silent and still through what comes next, her mouth half-opened into his sleeve. She isn’t ignorant of the process, but he is touching her where only her own hands have before, and she breathes out, ragged and choppy, turning the slippery fabric under her cheek hot and a little muggy, as his finger slides firmly down the middle of her, dipping slightly between her folds. Her hips shudder forward almost of their own accord, trapping his hand between their bodies, and he is cupping at her, rubbing his thumb over the crease of her thigh, over the soft wispy curls above her slit, and if he doesn’t know what he is doing to her, he will soon, it must be so obvious. She is wet already, leaking for him like some sort of common courtesan; she can feel it rubbing messily between her lips with every little movement of his hand. Her nipples are flagrantly hard against the brush of his chest, and he must feel it, his fingers sliding back and forth against the sides of her lips, pushing the slickness around, opening her up.

“Reyna. Rey. Look at me,” he says above her; his free hand wraps around the back of her skull, tangling in her loosened hair, and pulls, not hard enough to hurt but enough so she must follow as he guides her head back, away from the darkened wet patch on his robe. The light feels impossibly bright as her eyes open to the room, to him, and he bends down to kiss her, slides his tongue, greedy and sure, into her mouth. His hand slides from her hair to her jawline, thumb rubbing at her, coaxing her to open wider. She obeys, deepening the kiss, rolling her tongue against his, though she bristles slightly at the way he handles her, as if there is no doubt whatsoever that she has been given to him to do as he wishes. There is, of course, no doubt; she may not be coin, but she is currency, and though a part of her still rails at the thought, she has been little else since the day of her birth. She has had years to reconcile herself to it, and at least, she thinks with resigned satisfaction, what she has bought is much, much more than most. After all, she considers, canting her hips closer into him, a hard little pulse clenching fiercely, greedily between her legs, they could have married her to The Butcher in truth; he is the scion of an illustrious line, what the Coruscanti call a _prince of the blood_. Or it could have been an old man, a crafty aged wolf like her uncle. She thinks of the old emperor, the one who had preceded Brendol -- his wizened, bent form, his drooping, stuttering jaw. His second young wife had survived him -- briefly.

Rey sighs a little as she breaks the kiss, and he chuckles darkly, chases her mouth with his and bites at her lower lip, quick and possessive. She rocks her hips forward again, and she can feel him, the swell of him pressed up against her -- what word would a courtesan use, his prick? his cock? Neither seems like a word suitable for the thoughts of a lady, a princess, an empress -- but then he nips at her mouth again. Below, his fingers have been moving steadily, rubbing little circles at her heated, slippery entrance; if he keeps it up, she thinks she won’t be able to keep standing for much longer, his knuckles bumping up over a spot that makes a thick heat coil up inside her, her thighs starting to tremble, legs turning weak and unsteady.

She feels his wrist move suddenly, turning, and then she can’t breathe, can’t think, her vision going rough at the edges. He is pushing two fingers inside, into her center, and they make a dirty slick sound up in her, the wet dripping. It must be all over him, his palm, the heel of his hand, but he keeps moving, crooking his fingers up inside her, pulling back and forth, rubbing at her walls, touching her deep, and it is too much. She feels small, breakable, like she might split in two; one Rey that wants him to stop, to still, to hold his fingers inside her, unmoving, his arm bracing her tight against him. And another, a Rey that wants more, that needs to pull him deeper until there is no more room, that needs him to keep slamming into her, again and again, ripping the moans from her, violent and skirting the edge of pain.

She whines, low and needy, unable to hold the noise back in her throat; she knows she must look a mess, her heated face pink and sweaty, her hair a frizzy halo around her face. She mouths at the Emperor’s bared shoulder, his sleeve loose, slipping down his arm; she is desperate, trying to stifle another miserable, keening sound, and over the pale curve of his arm, she sees Ren’s face, his reddened lower lip hitched between his teeth. The Butcher is looking at her like his life depends on it, his eyes large and dark, the flickering low light painting him red and gold. She cannot look away from him as he opens his mouth, runs the tip of his tongue wetly corner to corner.

She clings to the Emperor’s arm, a ragged doll weight, and watches Ren blink, his dark lashes fanning out and swiping back up like a dark smudge. The tip of his tongue is stilled on his lower lip, caught in his teeth, and his hands are gripping the arms of his chair, knuckles taut, tight. She sees his nostrils flaring out, a barely controlled harsh breath; it is too dark in the room to tell, but she is sure the little vein is pulsing in his temple, much like it is in hers, much like the hard insistent thump of heartbeat that she feels throughout, a furious rhythm, roaring in her ears, thudding in her chest. The fingers inside her twist, a smooth, inescapable slide, and she cries out, unable and uncaring to stop herself, eyes squeezing shut, a kaleidoscope of sparking light exploding on the inside of her eyelids.

It is a blur after that; she thinks she might bite down, the taste of salt and wine bursting on her tongue, or maybe she still cries out, nails scouring into her own flesh and his as he pulls his hand out of her, brings it to his mouth, and licks.

When she can breathe again, she sees the Emperor smiling. It isn’t exactly pleasant; his smile is unsettling, and like The Butcher’s, a little feral; he smiles with all his teeth, like a man far too satisfied with himself.

She supposes he’s earned it.

“On the bed, Your Majesty?” she asks, her voice winded, hoarse. She is surprised at her sudden brazenness, but the Emperor seems pleased enough.

“Yes, Lady Rey,” he says, mouth still crooked in a smile, as he takes his robe finally fully off. “On the bed.”

She settles on her back and he follows her without ceremony, kneels up above her quickly, taking himself in hand, and guides his prick between her legs. She isn’t sure if she should still be expecting pain; everything she has been told suggests there should be pain, and blood, though that has yet to prove true. She braces herself for it all the same, but it doesn’t come. She is sensitive, swollen from his fingers, but she opens up for him easily, her slippery wet slit spreading as he fills her up. The stretch of him in her is strange; it makes her feel full, deep inside, much more so than before. It’s almost like he is taking up all the space inside her, and then it’s gone as he is pulling back, a warm slick drag, her muscles clenching after him as if trying to keep him inside.

He gives her a little questioning look before he moves again, more curiosity than concern, and she rolls her hips, spurring him on, feeling that hot slow drag again before he thrusts back in. He moves in long, steady pushes, one hand gripping at her hip, the other braced on the bed, the mattress jolting slightly under them as he moves, and she moves with him, slippery and noisy and entirely unashamed.

She doesn’t crest again, not like before, but she is almost thankful for it, unsure if she can bear it again so soon. His thrusts turn sharp and stuttered before long, and he makes a rasping, deep noise as he spills inside her.

***

Rey wakes later in the night, some unseen influence preventing her from sitting up right away. She blinks, sighing, and turns her head ever so slightly. Beside her, the bed is empty, but not yet cold to the touch, and the candles have all gone out.

In the low, dying light of the fireplace, she sees her husband’s shape. He stands naked, bracing himself, one-armed, on the carved back of a chair, and The Butcher, Lord Ren, is knelt between his spread thighs, his dark head leaning into the carved jut of his hip. The Emperor’s free hand is wrapped in The Butcher’s hair, the heavy strands of it slithering through his fingers, and for a moment, all she can think of is how pale they both are, milk-white, the vampire lords of the capital.

“Kylo,” Emperor Brendol says in a voice so dazed, so completely wrecked that she knows she wants to hear her name on his lips exactly so, and soon.

His hand fists tighter in The Butcher’s hair, and under the heavy, embroidered quilts, Rey moves her wrist, slowly, carefully, testing gently at the soft, lingering soreness between her legs. She runs the pad of one finger over the seam of her lips, the satiny flesh still slick, wet, and feels it part under her careful stroke. The greedy, hungry pulse thumps once again deep inside of her, but she doesn’t dare move more, watching the two of them from under her lashes.

The Butcher’s wide back is a mess of old, healed scars, the curve of a knife-wound close to his spine, thick dark welts, ropy and raised, where he was once whipped to the bone. She doesn’t know the story well; she was too young to remember for herself, but she’s had her uncle’s account of it, this thing that had happened long before Kylo Ren earned his bloody name, when he was little more than a boy. A war, a capture, and no ransom; they said he had gone mad from the pain, and when the rescue had finally come, they found him in the citadel courtyard, alone, surrounded by nothing but broken bodies, torn apart beyond recognition.

“Kylo,” the Emperor repeats, “oh, gods, Kylo.”

When The Butcher pulls back, a string of shimmering spit still connects his swollen, red mouth to the Emperor’s prick. She watches it break as he rises up, huge hands steadying on the Emperor’s sharp hips, the ladder of his ribcage.

“You taste like her, Bren,” he says, “like the sea. And strawberries.”

Bren. The casual endearment makes something sharp uncoil inside her chest, something needy and wanting.

The Butcher moves the chair to the side, the leg of it scraping on the stone floor, and Rey stills herself, remaining silent.

“Bren,” The Butcher says again. “Turn around.”

***

In the morning, Rey wakes up alone, and is immediately beset by ladies-in-waiting, over-eager dressing maids, the chatelaine, and her new secretary.

She asks about His Majesty and is told he has gone hunting, which rankles at her until she is presented with the long and busy list of all the things that she must see to personally before her coronation a few weeks hence. It has been set for an auspicious date, and there is much to do beforehand, a multitude of tasks and items that must meet with her approval, from lace to pastries to tapestries. By midday, she is positively exhausted.

A table is set for her on the Western veranda, and to her surprise, Kylo Ren joins her at her meal, peeling an orange and pouring himself a generous glass of wine.

It seems quite improper; much at odds with court protocol as she understands it, but none of the well-schooled servants bat an eye at adding a second setting, and Rey acquiesces to the intrusion with as much grace as she can muster.

“You do not hunt?” she asks, working the little flask open under the cover of the tablecloth. It will be more difficult to add the decoction to her tea with Ren present, but it must be done. She wonders if it might do to simply spill it on her hand and then bring her fingers to her mouth, but that might not be enough for efficacy.

“On occasion. I do not care for hawking,” Ren tells her, removing a long strip of peel from the fruit, the fleshy white curling up underneath. “It will be better if you drink it as is, undiluted.”

“What?” she asks dumbly, and Ren shrugs, pops a piece of orange into his mouth, and chews thoughtfully for a few moments. She watches his throat work as he swallows, and feels the pink washing through her face.

“Your contraceptive potion,” he says finally. “The tea might make it taste better, but such things are usually more effective if taken pure.”

She doesn’t ask him how he knows, just brings up the bottle and downs it in one long pull. He is right; without her drink to sweeten it, it tastes abhorrent.

“I am a lost cause, but I would strongly advise you to learn all you can about hawking. He can talk about it for hours. If you express an interest -- if you ask him to teach you -- you will have him eating out of the palm of your hand,” The Butcher says. It feels unreal, absurd, that she sits across from him at her dinner table, and takes his advice on her marriage to heart.

Rey flexes her forearm, feels the harness with its little dagger shift slightly under her sleeve.

“Thank you, Lord Ren,” she says. “I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to poke me [on tumblr here](http://cracktheglasses.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
